March 8th

Today was admin filled, therefore, pretty boring to write about. So strap in for the next couple of minutes, it’s going to be a boring ride. I would have got up earlier and gone to ‘Body Pump’ with that git Andy but I was feeling sore from football on the weekend. On Saturday I’d played 2 games in an afternoon and someone had kicked me hard in the shin. Not going to the gym because my shin hurts is a pretty pathetic and childish excuse but who did I have to convince? Just me and while I was still in bed at 10am I thought it was a more than adequate excuse. The guy who horrendously fouled me wasn’t remorseful and his mum didn’t pick him up after the game; if he’d cried and his mum had collected him it would have meant it was an accident according to the logic of Tony Pulis, the Stoke manager.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/football/teams/a/arsenal/8541140.stm

After 2 hours of refreshing my emails I needed to get out of the house. I did a big shop in Sainsbury’s. I also remembered to bring the used plastic bags that have been accrued over the last month. I was hoping for a round of applause or a hand job but instead the woman on the till said “well done”: perhaps a sexual favour would have been inappropriate, as there was a large queue behind me. I, also, made a list and used a pen to tick off the items I needed: I felt like a real adult. I somehow managed to spend £77. When I’m pushing a trolley around, even if I have everything on the list I can’t help but buy every item with an orange “only £3” sticker on it. It could be only a bag of 50g crisps; but if it says “3 bags for £20”, I’m chucking them in the trolley. It turns out I’m a massive sucker for anything that has big colours and numbers under it.

After getting back, I unpacked and realised I’d bought too much food for the space available in the flat. I’ve effectively forced my flat mates to eat out until my supplies diminish. It’s not my fault. I blame those bloody bargains! After eating a tiny percentage of my war rations, I did some writing and I hit 5pm without speaking to a single human being. I was tempted to knock on the door of the flat below to ask for a cup of sugar, just to talk to someone. However, it’s not 1950’s America and I’m a bit scared of the guy in that flat. I don’t want my obituary to read, “Chris Martin: Stabbed over Tate and Lyle misunderstanding”.